Consequences of Choice
by Ayla Pascal
Summary: Sometimes choices are not as clear cut as Hermione would like. PreHBP. Contains politics and dystopian themes.


**Consequences of Choice**

There are always three piles of paper on Hermione's desk in the Ministry.

_news from the wizarding world_

_news from the Muggle world_

It is the third one that made her hands shake slightly as she carefully places a newspaper cut-out on the pile.

_news from Muggle-borns_

We're a different breed now, she thinks faintly as she opens _The Sunday Times _and wrinkles her nose at the smell of recycled paper and ink. We're neither one nor the other.

Hermione rarely reads the articles nowadays. She finds herself skimming the various papers and magazines, looking for key words. Her wand is always ready to duplicate articles. These days, a Muggle-born active in either world is an event noteworthy to the Ministry.

"We never know who will betray us," the Minister said in his inauguration speech as the crowds cheered and Hermione tried her best to look invisible.

Each evening, her superior gives a frosty smile as she hands over her day's research. There is always a polite enquiry as to whether she has signed out properly. Hermione ignores the bitterness building in her stomach as she hears these words and nods curtly. As if she could forget.

There are so many rules for Muggle-borns nowadays that Hermione feels like she could choke on them.

-

"I'm fine," Hermione tells her mother at their weekly visit.

Her mother gives her a sad smile. "Isn't it about time you came home?"

Hermione doesn't know where home is anymore.

-

Table of facts:

Fact: Voldemort was defeated at exactly 7:29 pm on the 22nd of May, 1998.

Fact: Muggles governments all around the world discovered the wizarding world a week later.

Fact: This was hidden from both the wizarding and Muggle public until 2005 when the British House of Commons passed the Statute for the Protection of the Muggle Public.

Fact: America rid itself of its magical menace on July 4th 2006 and declared itself a free nation once more.

Fact: Nobody knows what is going on in Asia.

Fact: Continental Europe has been decimated by bombs.

Fact: Africa's magical population has gone into hiding.

Fact: Britain is now the second safest country for a witch or wizard.

Fact: Britain has been at an uneasy state of half-war for two years now.

Fact: The wizarding world in Britain has come up with its own measures to counter this problem.

Hermione stares down at her neat precise writing and thinks that she might cry.

_- _

The headstone is plain and there are only two words on it.

_Our saviour_

Hermione fights back tears as she kneels and places a lily beside the grave. She knows Harry would have hated his funeral, his grave … and everything that is now happening in his name.

A hand is placed on her shoulder and she looks up to see Ron standing there. He looks almost like the boy she graduated with so long ago. Hermione fights the urge to give him a hug. She gets up and brushes the dirt off her knees.

"Long time," he says quietly.

She doesn't know what to say so she nods instead.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he says, sounding uncomfortable. "I'm sorry for not doing anything while they passed those laws. I'm sorry for not contacting you in the past year. I'm … just sorry."

"It's all right. You had other things on your mind." Hermione pauses, and tries to think of something else to say. Something normal. Something that could never be construed as treasonous. She finds that she doesn't really trust Ron nowadays. "How's Pansy and the baby?"

Ron beams. "Jessie will be three this August. We're so proud of her."

Hermione smiles faintly. "I'm glad for you."

-

Explaining Muggle technology to wizards is like explaining the magical world Muggles. They understand the theory but the practical aspects elude them.

Hermione still remembers how long it took her to learn the automatic reach-for-your-wand-when-trouble-arises that seemed to come so naturally to those who grew up around wizards. Still, sometimes she thinks that a cloth is better than a cleaning spell. A table just doesn't _feel _ clean after a spell.

"It's not impossible," she tells them with a tight smile. "Muggles can destroy Hogwarts. They can destroy all of Britain."

At times, she wonders whether the group of silent witches and wizards around her, solemn in their black robes, are simply in disbelief that Muggles have more powerful weapons than they could ever develop.

"Magic and Muggle technology," she says, "while not mutually exclusive, don't mix well. It took twenty years for us to adapt the Muggle car to work in the magical world. Some things, however, are entirely different. Magic works on the individual level. But, Muggle devices, such as electricity, are designed to work on a mass scale. One spell cannot work on more than a dozen or so people. However, one piece of Muggle technology…" Hermione trails off and wonders if they will get the implication.

Several blank looks greet her but she thinks she can see a flicker of understanding in a pair of grey eyes.

-

One

Two

Three

Four

Hermione sits down and counts the layers of skin on an onion. She thinks that it's strangely similar to how Muggle-borns in the wizarding world are wrapped up nowadays. Not in butterfly-wing-thin skins but in laws that smother and choke until the Mudbloods are turned into perfect smiling Ministry servants.

She feels involuntary tears roll down her face.

-

Sometimes Hermione feels like a doll being held by two little girls who want to play in different worlds. One arm is being dragged into the wizarding world and the other into the Muggle world and she's slowly being torn into two.

Hermione isn't even sure which side she wants to be on and suspects that both sides know it.

Ripped, split, torn

Broken into two separate and perfect pieces. One Muggle. One pureblood. Each acceptable by itself.

She thinks that gives a whole new meaning to the world gestalt.

Hermione knows that the world she gets to play in depends on what happens in the next few days, weeks, months.

-

"We want you to be safe," her dad tells her.

Hermione's knuckles are white and her fingers tremble. She tightens her grip on the fine china teacup and prays that it doesn't break. The sweet aroma of Earl Grey tea wafts up and she remembers her childhood.

Sandpits. Watching football. The feel of plastic. The harsh beep of electronic equipment.

But superimposed on these images are those of her other life.

Pumpkin juice. The feeling of raw power. Stone walls. Clear, unpolluted air.

"I am safe," she insists and wonders whether she's lying to herself.

-

The Ministry has learned a surprising amount of discretion over the past few years. Yet, Hermione still knows where the small, discreetly-stamped envelope is from and what it contains.

Her marching orders.

Hermione knows that she is expected and leaves immediately.

Obtaining a Floo pass at near midnight is easier than she thought. Hermione arrives, breathless and slightly sooty at the Ministry Floo Offices just after 12:05 am.

"Miss Granger. Punctual as always, I see."

Hermione turns around and sees her boss standing there with Lucius Malfoy. "I presumed that it was important," she says.

Her boss, a diminutive woman in her mid-fifties, gives her an icy smile. "Of course. You didn't imagine that this was a social call at this hour. I'm unaware of Muggle customs but here in the wizarding world, we prefer to do business at normal hours. Nevertheless, this was too important to wait."

It is easy for Hermione to ignore the mild jab at her ancestry and upbringing. She's used to it. "I assume Mr. Malfoy is involved somehow?"

"The Wizengamot has decided that the current situation is unacceptable and has decided to send a team to negotiate a treaty with the Muggle government. You and Mr. Malfoy will be our main representatives. In the spirit of reconciliation, we thought it was best to send both a pureblood and a Muggle-born."

Hermione nods blankly and wonders if she's heard correctly.

Her boss hands her a thick envelope. "Your full orders. I expect you to know the contents of this by tomorrow afternoon.

As Hermione leaves, she wonders what Lucius Malfoy thinks of this situation.

-

As Hermione stands next to Malfoy, in a Muggle lift with Aurors at their back, she watches him inspect the buttons. There is none of the innocent curiosity of Arthur Weasley in his face, only calculated understanding.

"I expect these run on electricity," he says mildly.

She nods, surprised that he is able to pronounce the word. Most wizards, even the ones interested in Muggles, didn't seem to remember the right words.

Hermione feels a twinge of admiration for Malfoy as she remembers her own struggle at age eleven to learn wizarding terms.

(Dementors – bit like demented, emphasis on the last syllable)

(Knuts – not 'nuts' but 'k'noots', rather like the name of Canute, the king of England in the eleventh century)

It can't have been easy for a pureblood (wizard supremacist, she tells herself) to know Muggle terms well enough to sound almost Muggle.

The lift pings and announces 'thirteenth floor'. Hermione finds this rather ironic.

Malfoy gives her a hard look. "Ready?"

Hermione isn't sure if she'll ever be ready. She nods anyway.

-

The Muggle world does not want to be seen to be associating with wizards. Blair's Labor government has rented a suite in a downtown hotel and this is where the talks are held.

Pausing at the door of the executive suite, Hermione takes a deep breath and turns to look at Lucius. They're on the same side here, she thinks with a faint glimmer of amusement. Even she can't help the faint surge of unease deep in her stomach at the thought of meeting the Muggles. Don't be silly, she chides herself.

Lucius gives her an unreadable glance. He lifts a hand and raps sharply on the door.

Hermione feels her stomach clench in apprehension.

-

It's all politeness and smiles. Hermione feels that she simply might scream if she hears the words "a recess is requested" again. It's not only the Muggle side, she thinks to herself, trying to be fair. The Aurors have requested the same number of recesses.

She feels so utterly _useless_ here as a representative, but repeats the words of the Ministry dutifully.

As the day draws to a close, and the wet cold seeps into the hotel from the windows, Hermione realises that they've gained nothing and everything.

The main Muggle representative, a man named Alan Smith, smiles at her and offers a hand. "We will meet again next week. This was a most productive day."

Hermione nods. "Yes, it was," she echoes.

A flicker of something passes through his eyes. "You are," he stumbles over the word, "Muggle-born?"

"And the wizarding world has done its best to make me feel at home," Hermione says smoothly. "I am as much of a witch as the ones brought up in our world from birth." As she says the words, she can almost believe herself. Except for the piles of papers piled on her desk labelled _Muggle-born_ and she wonders if they're simply too polite to use the word _Mudblood._

Lucius looks at her once they're back in the safety of the Ministry and there's a faint look of admiration in his eyes.

-

The conferences proceed sedately.

Defence rights.

Fishing rights.

Everything is filtered through a fine toothcomb and Hermione is sick of it. The perfect treaty is coming together under her hands but she can't help but feel there is something _wrong_.

Perhaps it's the slight gleam in the eyes of the Muggles.

And she wonders when the term _Muggle_ became a term of derision in her mind.

-

She isn't really surprised when the offer comes. After all, Dean had come to her a week before, a smile on his face and a look of home in his eyes. She suspects that the Muggles have put him and his parents with the Witness Protection program. After all, who knew what kind of dastardly revenge wizards could execute?

Hermione could have told them better. Muggle-borns aren't worth the revenge. The wizarding world didn't particularly want them in the first place.

His name is blasted off the Ministry records, nothing but a scorch mark where he used to work in the Auror Division.

The letter contains a postscript from her parents and Hermione feels her heart twist as she reads the words.

_That world… it isn't safe. Come home, sweetie._

Her hand trembles and she drops the lined, mass-produced paper. It looks strange among yellowed parchment.

-

The Ministry almost doesn't notice when halfbloods begin to disappear. After all, they're only one step removed from being Muggle-born.

Hermione is there the day Aurors blast Seamus's name off the list of Mediwizards at St. Mungo's.

"Muggle father," she hears somebody mutter in the watching crowd.

-

The first pureblood to disappear is Draco Malfoy, the last of the legitimate Black legacy.

The expression on Lucius's face is pure murder when he first hears the whispers that Draco defected to the Muggle side.

"Stupid fools," he says harshly as they work out the last wrinkles in the Defence Pact. "Stupid, stupid fools."

-

It's a week before anybody realises that Dumbledore hasn't come back from his yearly Ministry visit.

Hermione reads about this in _The Daily Prophet_ and feels a shiver slide down her back. It feels like the world is resting on a balance and it's tipping but she isn't sure to which side.

The Aurors promise to find him and the Muggle newspapers laugh and talk about how ridiculous the wizarding world is to have lost yet another one of its war heroes.

As Hermione reads this, her fists clench, her breath quickens and she thinks, those horrible Muggles.

-

It all escalates, spirals, and spins out of control from there.

_The Daily Prophet_ has stopped reporting the disappearances. Hermione wonders whether this is a futile hope that ignorance would solve the problem. A part of her hopes that this will all end without bloodshed but another part – the part that is an ardent student of history – laughs scornfully.

With sudden clarity, she realises that they are all on a speeding train to hell.

-

She meant to leave by herself. After all, that would have been best. No more choices. No more wondering whether she chose the right side.

But after a strong hand clamps on her arm and a pair of cold grey eyes stares at her, Hermione falters.

-

They aren't safe here.

Hermione feels this every time she whispers a spell and feels the _hum_of power through her. "They can trace this," she tells Lucius and he stares at her.

"We're not _Muggles_," he says through a stiff jaw that won't heal properly. "I refuse to live like one."

Hermione doesn't correct him. There's no point anyway.

Most of the time, Hermione pretends to herself that they're still in England.

Most of the time, this is easy.

Easy until she goes outside, feels the harsh sunlight on her bare shoulders and Hermione can just feel her skin _burning_.

The atmosphere here is one of an uneasy détente.

Hermione is surprised at the level of integration of magical and Muggle here. It's blended in so subtly that the ordinary Muggle, and indeed the ordinary wizard, would simply miss it. That's one of the main reasons the Australian government began offering (surreptitiously) asylum to well-known witches and wizards.

And _that,_ of course, is why Hermione is here living with Lucius Malfoy of all people.

-

Sometimes Hermione wonders why Lucius left with her.

But she knows the answer already. With both his wife and son gone (presumed dead), there's nothing left in England for him except bitterness and fear.

-

News from England is slow to filtrate into their small town. Everybody around them goes about their nice, normal, _Muggle_ lives with little concern over the fact halfway around the world people are dying.

Hermione suspects that the British government has clamped down on any non-essential information from getting out of Britain. It appears that they left just in time. As the weeks trickle past, the number of escaped witches and wizards (most trying to get to Australia, some to Asia and Africa) grow fewer and fewer until they stop altogether.

One morning, as Hermione sits on their front porch in the smothering heat, she hears Lucius's quick footsteps come up from behind her.

"Look at his," he says and thrusts a newspaper into her hands.

She stares at the headline.

_England Joins the US and Declares Herself Magic-Free_

"What can we do?" she asks helplessly.

-

They could:

Infiltrate the British government.

Build up a resistance and invade England.

Form a freedom organisation for witches and wizards everywhere.

Exact revenge for friends and relatives lost.

Hermione wants to do all of these and more but doesn't even know where to begin. She stares up at Lucius who has a closed look on his face. "What can we do?" she repeats.

-

Escaping the clean-up, Hermione finds, is harder than escaping the massacre itself. She wakes up a week later with a hand clamped over her mouth. She struggles before she realises it's Lucius with a hand held over his own mouth. "Shh," he hisses.

She stops moving and realises that she can hear footsteps through their house.

"It's time to leave," he says softly, his breath tickling her ear. "They've found us."

-

Running.

Hiding.

Hermione is sick of it all within a month. It's nothing like the spy novels she used to curl up with as a little girl. No glamour. Just dirty small rooms and forever listening at doors, hoping.

Futile hope.

Lucius knows as well as she does that they'll be caught.

It's strange, Hermione thinks. They've developed a good working relationship nowadays. A relationship based not on friendship and mutual respect, but on staying alive and anticipating the moves of the enemy. This is something they're both good at.

She lives out of a tiny rucksack and packs it tightly each morning. When they leave, (it's always with only minutes of warning) she grabs it and it's like they were never there.

Apparating.

Running.

Hiding.

Always the same routine.

And she's _so sick_ of it.

-

Hermione wonders why they're running.

They're in Lanzhou, China. The city's brimming with people and two more people with mufflers and thick coats easily blend into the crowd. Hermione feels the cold seep into her and wishes that they hadn't gone straight from stifling Johannesburg to here.

The snow around them is half-melted and dark with footprints. Hermione finds this strange. In her mind, snow is always pure white.

In their tiny hotel room, Hermione asks Lucius, "Why are we running?"

"Because to fight now would be a losing battle," he tells her.

She stares and realises that Lucius does not like to lose. "That's why you turned."

He catches her wrist with one still-gloved hand and pulls her around so that she's facing him, close enough that she can feel his breath. "All of that is irrelevant now," he says tightly.

Centuries of prejudice just flew out the window, she thinks and wonders why this isn't a more momentous occasion. It _should_ be. There should be celebrations along the streets of Hogsmeade. Children, Muggle-born, halfblood and pureblood, should be dancing in the streets. But Hogsmeade, she suspects, is no longer there.

On impulse, she leans over and hugs him.

-

Several weeks and a few countries later, Hermione accidentally brushes against somebody in the street and feels a shiver of magic through her. She meets frightened dark brown eyes with her own light hazel ones and just _knows_.

Lucius raises one eyebrow when she brings the terrified girl into their hotel room. His right hand slips into his pocket.

"Obviously the American government's efforts weren't as effective as they would like us to think," Hermione says dryly.

The girl trembles and suddenly Hermione realises how _young_ she is and how bloody _unfair _the whole situation is. "Who are you?" the girl asks.

Hermione opens her mouth to answer but Lucius cuts in, "That, I'm afraid is none of your business." His eyes gleam. "Stop trembling, child, we're magical as well. What is your name?"

"Jennifer," the girl says finally. She does not seem visibly calmer.

"How did you survive," Lucius asks bluntly.

Jennifer stares up at him, her mouth pursed into a thin line. "I don't trust you," she says quietly. "But I guess if you were going to kill me, you'd have done so already." She sits down on a chair and draws her knees up to her chest. "I got a letter from a place called Salem Academy two years ago."

Hermione gives a start. Had it already been two years since the purges in America?

She realises Jennifer is looing at her. "Go on," Hermione says awkwardly.

"I was so excited," she muttered. "So fucking excited. I was one of the witches that everybody was talking about on the news. I would have gone around and told all my friends but my … my mum stopped me. I think she might have known or maybe…" She shakes her head. "And then these men came around. I was scared and hid." Her lower lip trembles. "They fucking _killed_ her. My mother. My mother who was perfectly _normal_. I just ran after that."

"How did you survive?" Lucius's tone is perfectly neutral and Hermione stops herself from staring at him in disbelief.

Jennifer shrugs. "Sheer dumb luck, I guess." She stares at both of them. "Who are you two?"

Lucius ignores her question. "We cannot guarantee your safety, but we can teach you magic. How would you like to avenge your parents?"

Hermione is horrified at his words but her breath catches in her throat at the gleam in the young girl's eyes.

"I'd like that very much."

-

Hermione stares at Lucius. "You're…" she whispers and trails off. She glances over and sees the girl still sleeping quietly in the corner. "You're building up an _army_ to take on the Muggles."

"Do you have a better plan," he asks her coldly.

"Maybe this is just a freak instance," she says, her voice tense. "How do you even know there are other people like her out there? How on earth are we supposed to find them?"

"Did you learn _nothing?_" he snaps. "We have ways. The Muggles are _right_ to fear us." She can feel magic almost crackle in the air between them. With a slight frown, Hermione realises that Lucius looks more alive now than in the past few years.

"Then maybe they are right to get rid of us too."

"You may think so," Lucius says slowly, "and if you do, I suggest you get out now." He points to the door. "I will not be responsible for killing a witch for her stupidity."

"But I'm just a Mudblood," she spits out. "Dirty blood, remember? Nothing but Muggle blood runs through my veins."

Lucius ignores her words. "Perhaps, Hermione, you ought to ask Jennifer tomorrow morning what she was doing the past two years. After all, there are precious few jobs available for eleven year olds." He gives her a long hard look and Hermione shivers. "Never forget, but the Muggles put us in this situation. We're doing this for survival." He leaves the room, leaving her sitting there staring at the wall.

Hermione does not sleep that night.

-

A thousand maybes run through her mind.

Maybe Voldemort had the right idea.

Maybe Muggles were dangerous.

Maybe they were just doing this for survival.

Maybe Lucius wanted something more than being the Dark Lord's lackey.

Maybe the Muggle world finding out wasn't that much of an accident after all.

Maybe there were other witches and wizards out there simply biding their time.

And maybe…

Just maybe, they could actually win this.

-

Hermione decides to bide her time. There is nothing they can do now.

She walks over to the window and stares out over the twinkling lights.

It's funny what consequences our choices have, she thinks.

-- _finis_


End file.
